I sit and stare. Blank page with pen in hand, I wait. I imagine time and space. Love and loss. I wonder about life and its many roads. I utilize experience and allow for mistakes. Darkness and light have ample room each, to put forth their perspective. Doubt creeps in nearly all the time, I press on, and rely on hope.

When it comes to writing my only regret would be not listening to the call of the words when they come. The absolute music they make. It isn't without effort, but neither is it forced. And the melody when it arrives is pure magic, to my heart and soul. 

 

I sat with words these past few days. Some stayed. Not all are for me to keep. 

They don't all come the same way or pace. There are times their arrival is fast and demanding, looking for an immediate home, while others show up one word or snippet at a time. I mull, I chew, I ponder, and... I wait. 

I am patiently impatient when it comes to words finding place. I don't seek perfection in the writing, I don't believe in perfection(a topic for another day perhaps). This doesn't mean I am not hard on myself or demand the words to feel right to me. It means once they find their place and the feeling of them being "right" arrives, the task of how to set them free lays heavy on my mind. 

Sharing the words I write has never been a natural thing for me. I have my doubts and fears of not being accepted, heard or even rejected. I have mentioned community and belonging when it comes to words, and let's not forget the persistence of the words need to be free and felt by others. Sharing still isn't natural to me, but in the sharing of what I have been able to write, I've discovered community and found acceptance. My hope is the words find landing places with(and in) others.

Our morrow does indeed come quick, how will you choose to share your words?

For me, writing is an outlet. A safe space to be free, to dream. It is as essential to me as breathing. Without writing, a large part of myself would simply cease to exist. 

The character of C.S. Lewis in the play Shadowlands by William Nicholson states, "We read to know we're not alone." There is a sense of belonging with the written word. One can sit reading a book, whether devouring it full speed ahead or taking time with each line/page, etc. it doesn't take much to find one's self. 

It is the same with writing. I get a feeling of community an awareness of not only myself but of others as well as the colors of this journey called Life. Maybe we are all searching for meaning and belonging, and with the written word perhaps we can find both.